


Answered Questions from Theatrical Muse for Ethan Rayne, One

by lycomingst



Series: Beloved Chaos [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Theatrical Muse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lycomingst/pseuds/lycomingst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I played Ethan Rayne at "Theatrical Muse" on LJ for a few years. This is a series of questions I answered in Ethan's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answered Questions from Theatrical Muse for Ethan Rayne, One

**If you could only carry one memory with you into the afterlife, which would you choose?**

Assuming there is an afterlife, which for the sake of discussion, I'll allow. Well, I know what my afterlife would be. Punishment, of course. After all the fun I've had, it seems only fair. Not the fire and brimstone kind of hell, no, that might provide some amusement. All that screaming. No, my hell will, no doubt, be located in some suburb, in rows of domiciles created exactly alike. A patch of lawn in front and back. I imagine part of my eternity will be spent in maintaining them. Manicuring each blade exactly alike. In my Bermuda shorts and black sox. Orderliness, predictability, routine, that is how I imagine the gods will punish me.

So if I were to remember one event that would sustain me, warm me in those endless, boring hours, I guess it would be some night when disharmony reigned. Some moment which brought me to the edge of terror, yet I did not tip over into madness. Some ecstasy, probably sexual, that I had not realized existed before hand; something that took me by surprise. I have cultivated such moments all my life; I would have to think long and hard to pick just one. And if I could narrow it down to one that would entertain me for millennia, why would I share it with you? Secrets are too delicious.

Yes, I will have my memory, and everyone in my track house hell will wonder why I was smiling.

 

**If you could meet any famous personality, living or dead, and smack them in the head with a large trout, who would it be?**

Oh, so many annoying nits in the world to chose from! Would I go with whoever is the flavor of the month? One of these media darlings we can't seem to hide from? But I've seen so many in my time, so many puffed up nobodies come and go. Suppose I were to let fly with the trout, my hands would stink afterwards. Adding injury to insult, really.

And I mean, it's not very subtle, is it? Assault with a scaly sea creature. Rather too Monty Pythonish for my taste. I really prefer the bell, book and candle approach. If someone exasperates me, what would be simpler than making them a goat in a children's petting zoo for a time? Or make them smell like something revolting, no matter how often they bathe? You see, no comic violence and yet, score settled.

Wait, I've thought of someone. Back when I was staying with Giles, I had to listen to Ziggy Stardust's album pretending I was enthralled every time I heard "Starman". And I heard it several times a day for months on end. When truth be told, one spin of the old LP would have been enough for me. The things we do for love. And upon consideration, I would like to sneak up and give dear David Bowie a solid thump with something heavy. For old times' sake.

 

**What does 'comfort' mean to you?**

It's a yin-yang thing, isn't it? One doesn't appreciate comfort unless one knows the opposite. For instance, because I've undergone the ritual involved in learning the ... (one really can't render it in English) spell which entails standing for 24 hours, a good deal of it on one foot, I now appreciate a good sit-down much more.

I'm British by background and we do like our comfort. It's all that nasty weather. You know, the "...warm hands, warm face, warm feet. Wouldn't it be loverly!" sentiment. One takes it with one wherever one goes. So it might translate, in a tropical clime, to a cool drink in the shade, but the thought's the same.

To use more aggressive phrasing: I take comfort. I take comfort in a job well done. To see hapless humans dealing with whatever I've conjured, to see their well-regulated lives turned topsy-turvy, that gives me a warm glow.

It's true. My idea of comfort is to spread discomfort.

Needless to say (but when did that stop me?) I take endless and enormous comfort in not leading the life my parents planned for me.

 

**At what moment in your life did you feel most proud?**

All this poking around in one's life! This whole exercise of writing these answers is like lying on a headshrinker's couch, isn't it? Luckily, I've never had any reluctance in talking about myself, so I just make myself comfortable and free associate away.

I suppose one could pick a moment when you realize that someone you adore is smitten with you, also. I'm not talking about flirting in a bar, eyes meeting and smiles exchanged. Being noticed by a good-looking stranger, that's just vanity. It has its place, but I meant was when one is head over heels and the object of your affections is laughing at your jokes and obviously happy to be "accidentally" brushed against. You have been found worthy; it's a good moment. Sadly, it never lasts. Things fall apart. Your partner, perhaps, doesn't have the courage to explore the far reaches of ecstasy, shying away when pressing forward would open whole new worlds. Well, never mind about that.

No, if I were to choose something that I'm proud of, it would be more the decision I made. I was meant for the law, you know. The future was planned for me. University, articled (as we called it then) to a prestigious law firm, being called to the bar. And, indeed, in daydreams it could be compelling. Imagining oneself standing before a hushed room, everyone hanging on your every word, an arm flung out dramatically. The reality would be hours of grubbing around in legal paper, defending cretins unable to cover their tracks. So I said no. No to all that. Never really looked back. So every day I'm not a lawyer is a proud day for me.

 

**Heart's Desire: Think about something you once wanted so badly but never acquired. Write about how you think your life would've been different if you had received what your heart desired.**

No, no, no. This is not a question that has any meaning to me. "For all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been'." And a bloody waste of time to think about (one of the perks of a good education, the ability to bolster your argument with odd bits of verse!).

I don't dwell. I'm not somebody who fondles pieces of the past in my mind and sighs meaningfully. Would things be different in my life if I'd gotten my heart's desire at twenty? Well, yes, they would. As they would be if I'd won several million pounds in the pools. Or if I'd had my nose bitten off by a macaw. But what effect any of those things would have had is speculation. What would be the point?

I daresay I wanted things in the past, but they weren't much different from what I want now. An interesting place to be, enough money in my pocket for necessities (i.e. silk shirts, Italian shoes, etc.), a warm body next to me once in while, just enough whiskey to take the edge off.

Have I been disappointed that certain things took the turn they did? Well, yes. But isn't there a small suspicion in all of us that if we got what we wanted then, we'd be bored with it now.

 

**When in your life did you feel the most alone?**

It was at a funeral. Or, to be more precise, just after it. We were burying poor Randall. He died after our last encounter with Eyghon went badly awry.We were all still very shocky, but Ripper, Rupert that is, was the worse. "Like Niobe, all tears." No, no. I mustn't be callous. He was visibly affected. We went out for drinks afterward, just the two of us. I guess I knew the circle was broken. That there'd be no more conjuring with Deidre and Philip. But Ripper and I had something more.

The closest pub turned out to be a trendy nightmare. All plastic and garish pin ball machines. We sat without speaking for the longest time. Then Ripper said, "I can't do this."

"What?"

"This. Any more" and he raised his head and looked at me.

Then I knew it was over. All of it. And that I was going to be alone.

He left soon afterward and I didn't see him again for years.

You seem to have caught me in a melancholy mood. Sorry.

 

**What is the biggest obstacle you have overcome in your existence?**

I'm not an overcome obstacles kind of guy. Not a bust down the front door type; I'm more a let's-see-if-the-back-door-is-open type.

Overcoming obstacles builds character. I wasn't in boarding school long before I knew that I would never have much of that: character. I'd watch the head boys, those paragons who were there to inspire us. All I saw were some exceedingly wet little twits, lording it over even younger boys, and prancing about as though they were the raj in India. I felt like telling them, "The Empire is dissolving, chaps. It's all over but the shouting. You can put down your white man's burden." But since I was always one of the smallest of the small boys, I kept my counsel.

These manly chaps were held up as something we should strive to be. Did they give up on the playing field? Never. We were told they overcame the opponent (the obstacle) by sheer determination and character. I noticed, though, that a well placed elbow jab in a scrum was also a deciding factor.

Acknowledging obstacles is acknowledging a goal. I really don't have one. Except continued existence and sowing some chaos among the respectable.

Have I rambled away from the topic? Well, it's my way.

 

**What do you look for in a romantic partner?**

Could it be:

A pulse? Though even that, in the circles in which I move, may be a politically incorrect request.

A pretty face? My liaisons tend to be short-lived, so the superficial things are often emphasized. If you find aesthetic pleasure in looking at someone, why not indulge in it?

A sense of humour? By that I mean, do they laugh at my witticisms? And to a lesser degree, am I amused by theirs?

An appreciation for the unconventional? You'd be surprised how often when scratching the surface of a button-down façade, one finds a hungry, angry anarchist. Scratching may not even be necessary; a light tickling can suffice.

Wherewithal? I'll admit I like comfort. Who doesn't? Shouldn't someone out to woo me want to wrap me in luxury? I'm so much more pleasant when I'm not counting pennies.

Nothing too outrageous on that list. I should be able to hold out until I meet someone who can fulfill my modest needs.

But sometimes, I look for any port in a storm.

 

**"The first time I saw..."**

A demon I almost pissed myself. Well, wouldn't you?

I had played around with spells and incantations but until I met with the others, nothing much worked out. Deidre and Randall had made a real study of it and Rupert had all that family Watcher background.

Of course, it was mostly big talk in the beginning, the way kids do at parties. Drink and delusions of grandeur. Eventually it turned out that several of us were serious about it. Even when sober. So we began meeting and trying out various things.

There were shopping trips for the various necessities. Charms; herbs; candles; assorted animal parts, fresh and dried. I discovered parts of London I never dreamed existed.

I remember our first attempts as rather nervous fumblings. With not much results. Then one night we got things right.

We conjured something. We always squabbled afterward about exactly what it was. But it was from another world. Our room filled with an almost choking smell of sulphur and I had a feeling of palpable evil. I couldn't do much more than sit there in stunned surprise.

It was Randall who jumped up and broke the circle. He ran to open the door and turn on the lights. All the while whispering, "Oh, oh, oh, oh." The poor boy was nearly undone. We all spent hours discussing it, embroidering our stories, telling each other the same things again and again. And we did a lot of drinking.

I thought it was wonderful.

**Describe where you grew up**

It was in the middle of England's green and pleasant land. The North Midlands. In a bustling community that enjoyed a good cup of tea and honored the Queen. I think it was called Boredom. Or maybe that was its state of being.

My father was a man of aspirations. He was reputed to be a good businessman. I suppose that meant he always had a knife up his sleeve. He had a house-proud wife, a status conscious daughter and, for his sins, me.

I was shipped away to boarding school as soon as possible. Part of my father's Grand Scheme to step up in the world. I was to make contacts that would prove useful. School more or less became my world. My bedroom at home never changed much from the time I was ten. It just seemed too much bother to take down the Goons' pictures taken from the newspapers and put up posters of the Rolling Stones as my tastes changed.

When I was home from school, my father would sometime take me into his office with him. To give me a taste of the thrill of cut-throat business manipulations in a backwater town in the middle of nowhere. Needless to say, I was numbingly bored. I soon learned how to slip away and find my own entertainment.

When I was fifteen or so, I began to go to London, usually when I was supposed to be elsewhere. Let's just say I had most of my growing up experiences there.

 

**What is your greatest strength?**

Oh, that would have to be my limited ambition. In my world of magic and power, it's easy to lose one's head. Let someone conjure a demon or two and, in no time at all, he starts thinking of ruling the world. I've seen it time and time again. So many Bright Young Things over reached themselves and now they're sleeping with the fishes or somewhere less aquatic but equally final.

I, on the other hand, have chosen a safer path for myself. I mean, what would I do with dominion over the world? Would that be anything more than a logistic nightmare? When would I get to time to sit in a nice café under a sun umbrella and watch the pretty people go by? And there'd always be some young-gun magician wanting to take me down, like a television cowboy standoff in a dusty town.

One's greatest strength is what gets you what you want. I want to enjoy myself and to cause a little commotion in the lives of the sedate and smug. Keeping to my own path has brought a great deal of that.

 

**Have you ever betrayed someone's confidence? Has anyone ever betrayed you? Write a ficlet on the theme of betrayal.**

Ethan had been born knowing who he was and what his tastes were. The most maturing part of his growing up was his realization that others had smaller ranges of sensual pleasure or that they lied about what they felt.

He was a quiet boy usually content to sit at the dinner table while the others in his family did the talking. When he did speak to ask a question or make an observation, whatever he said often offended his mother, outraged his father and caused his older sister to pinch him, pinch him hard, on his thigh underneath the table. It was a relief to everyone when he was sent away to school.

He was not especially studious or athletic. His teachers called him lazy and undisciplined. He was gravely polite to them and they knew he held them in contempt. He read what he liked and stopped when he was bored.

When he was 13 or 14 he suddenly became very interested in sport. Watching, of course, not participating. The reason was Charles, a back on the rugby team. Ethan admired his agility on the field, the wholeheartedness with which Charles threw himself into the game. Ethan thrilled at the intensity in his blue eyes as they followed the ball on the field, while Ethan, himself, could scarcely ever locate it. And after a successful play, the smile on Charles' face would seem to bring sunshine to the dim English winter day.

Whenever Charles was playing Ethan drifted down to the field and stood, freezing hands in his pockets, on the sidelines. Once the ball was catapulted offside and landed at his feet. He picked it up and looking over the shoulder of the referee who was taking it from him, Ethan saw Charles, who winked at him. Charles was Canadian and given to spontaneous gestures. Ethan's fantasies lived on that wink for days.

Although Charles was two years older he began to seek out Ethan. A casual meeting in a hallway might turn into a long conversation. They would steal away for walks on the school grounds. And behind a copse of trees the inevitable happened. There were kisses and clothes fumbling and ecstasy. They repeated the experience as often as they dared. Ethan understood why Charles gave him no more than the barest acknowledgement in public. But Ethan began imaging a future filled with Charles.

Then one day, Charles was gone. Back to Canada. Ethan never heard from him, then or later.

There was shock, denial, hope and finally, acceptance. Ethan had always been given to standing outside himself and making comments on the goings-on in his life, as though it were a film. This time the commentary said, "Well, that was bound to happen, wasn't it. You are one sad, little sod. What did you expect? Buck up, lad. More fish in the sea."

So Ethan decided that sort of thing couldn't have any other ending but betrayal and he adjusted his expectations in the future accordingly.

 

**Would you take back anything you said in anger?**

I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?

No, no, I can't think of anything. I'm very much a day is sufficient to itself type, not given to thinking on the past. Like the insouciant Piaf, I regret nothing.

First of all, I don't find much point in getting angry. If I want to get my own way (and we all do), I like a less red faced way of doing it. Stay behind the scenes, do what I like and then make a hasty retreat; that usually works for me. Why would I seek out confrontation? To revenge an insult? To avenge a slight to my "amour propre"? I care so little for what others think, that that sort of thing is of no consequence, or if I'm in the mood to be annoyed, I know much better ways to extract some small justice.

Of course, when I was younger and, perhaps less jaded, I would find myself giving over to anger. I often raged at that miniscule man, my father. In loud, yet I'm happy to say, very articulate invective I told him what was wrong with him and his life. I seem to remember being particularly offended by his waistcoats. Do I regret those intense batterings I gave him? Why should I? In spite of everything, and I think he came to despise me as much as I did him, he still left me in the will, and generously, too. Because I had his family name; because I was his 'legacy'. His pride demanded it.

Then, of course, I said some very cutting things to Ripper, back in the day. But that usually ended in prolonged and totally satisfying sexual encounters, I certainly don't regret saying any of those things.

So I guess the answer is "no".

 

**Talk about a time you realized that someone close to you was not the person you thought you knew.**

It might be expected that I would say something about Rupert. How he was the closest person to me and yet, he could walk away without a glance back. And wasn't I disillusioned and bewildered!

Nothing like it. I always knew who Rupert was. We were at school together before university. Such a polite boy, swotting away at his books. A well-rounded boy who took part in sports. Always the first to offer his handshake at the end of the rugger game. But I saw him play, too. He was ferocious. He meant to win, no quarter asked or given. But no unfair hits. Usually.

And he was what I would call comely.

I made it my business to find out about him, what he was interested in. The schoolboy chatter about his family was intriguing. Not the usual boring professions, "in the city" "father's quite a well-known barrister". No, it got about that it was all hush-hush. Of course, to boys that meant spies. M-whatever number they were using then. It was on one of my illicit trips to London, where I frequented many spots not known to tourists that I found out about the Watchers. I soon knew a great deal about Rupert Giles and his family's trade.

Rupert and I "bonded" over magic, its uses, its possibilities. Perhaps I corrupted him. But I couldn't have unless the potential was there, could I? I remember the occasion when I gave him the sobriquet "Ripper", but that's a tale for another day.

We went places together that neither had gone before alone. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. We were inseparable. But, though I would have denied this if asked, I knew it wouldn't last. It was his background; it would only allow him to go so far. That's what growing up in a loving home will do for you, I find. I had no compunction on turning my back on everything that was deemed importance to my parents. Alas, one little error in judgment in doing a spell, one small death and Ripper had snapped back to Rupert. And so we parted.

Though I still get to bedevil him at intervals during my life. There's that.

 

**Most people wish that I...**

"I'm gonna need next Thursday off."

"Shit, not again! The whole shift?"

"Laurie said she'd cover for me. This is the last time, I promise. It's the final court date. The degree is final. I gotta show up or that bastard won't give me the last of the money he owes me." She started to laugh. "Who knows, Mickey, I might take the money, buy a tiara and jet off to Monaco and you'd never see my cornflower blue eyes again."

"Or hear you bitch about your shift, or your tired feet, or cheap tippers. Ok, ok, you're off Thursday." He made a note on the big schedule board.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah."

Liz adjusted the uniform hanky tucked in a breast pocket one last time because the damn thing always drooped, and headed out to the floor. The regulars had started to drift in, bringing a blast of the cold pre-dawn with them every time the door was opened. They slid in their usual seats, and she could tell their individual moods just by the way they sat.

She grabbed the two coffee pots, reg and de-caf, and started pouring each customer's poison. This was her favorite shift, when the day workers were still hopeful about what was coming; later they're be drained and sour, but now they filled up on carbs, sugar, and coffee and cracked a few jokes. There were a few just finished with graveyard; they usually ducked in for a few minutes' quiet before facing what was probably another full day at home.

Take orders, dish out plates, fill cups. Her eyes constantly sweeping over her tables and the counter, keeping tabs on things. She swung by the new customer seated at the counter, a new face, an unknown quantity.

"Something to drink? Coffee?"

The man considered the question. "I think, perhaps, tea. And could I have some lemon with it?"

Liz almost grinned. The guy sounded like a PBS show. Where she would normally say, **sure, no problem**, she found herself nodding and saying, "Of course, I'll be back in a minute."

When she returned she had the mug of boiling water and a tea bag and slices of lemon on a separate small dish. She'd taken a moment to fan the slices out, aware it was to please him, thinking, god, she must be bored if a guy's accent was the best thing to happen to her in a while.

Dropping off the tea, she made a circuit of her tables, doing the necessary. When she got back to the tea drinker, he had his hands wrapped around the hot cup. She noticed his long fingers. A piano player? They were good hands for it. Guitar, maybe, like her? His nails were short, too. She gave him her professional waitress smile. "Ready to order?"

The rich English voice rolled out, "I'm torn. Have you any recommendations?" He looked in her eyes, waiting as though her answer would solve all his problems.

Oh, a charmer! Well, it'd been a while since anybody made the effort, so she went along. "I can tell you the waffles are very good. Really. And the maple syrup is almost the real thing."

"Sadly, I'm afraid the waffles would lie too heavily on my stomach on the long road trip I'm making through your green and pleasant land."

"Hah, it's green enough. But we don't get many tourists coming through during rainy season. Pleasant isn't what they usually say. Going home to Canada?"

"Going to Canada, yes, but it's not home. I'm a bit of a nomad. I've just come up from Los Angeles." He said it, Los An-ghee-lees. "I'm always fascinated by how far one can travel in this part of the world. The highway can be quite hypnotizing. I'm glad I decided to stretch my legs here." He gestured in the general direction of the diner.

Liz had studied him while he was talking. The thin frame, the sculptured face, and the sardonic eyes. Yeah, she was pretty sure that at any given time, the voice could be saying one thing and the eyes something else. Lesson learned from one bad marriage, check. But she realized her spine was pulled a little straighter as she leaned a little closer than she did with other customers. So what ever this guy used, it worked.

Some impatient moves from her other tables got her attention. She'd have to make the rounds again. "If you'd like to think about it, I could come back in a few minutes. . ."

"Perhaps another tea would settle my mind. If you could?"

She almost blurted out, "Anything." Instead she went with, "One tea," adding, "I'll bring some fresh lemon slices, too." As she walked around to the other tables, she glanced down at her feet. She never noticed before how ugly her shoes were.

When she got back to her "Tea Man" as she started to call him in her mind, she whisked away the old cup and saucer and replaced it with another artful tea bag and lemon arrangement. She took up her order pad and held her pencil in a serious way. "I'm ready if you are."

"Ah, I've narrowed it down. What do you think, omelet or scrambled eggs? I value your professional opinion."

"As an expert, I'd go with the scrambled eggs, and bacon, not the sausage."

"Just the thing. A couple of rashers of bacon. I do like it American style, very, very crisp. You've been an enormous help."

"Rashers, it is then." She looked at him and had the feeling it was a very silly grin she had on her face.

Daybreak had come with grey skies and threat of rain. The diner was hitting its busy morning rush, and Liz had to pick up her pace. She had a few more exchanges with Tea Man, a few words about LA and Seattle; she had a few wistful questions about London. But he soon finished his breakfast and stood to put on his coat.

Liz made a quick march to get behind the counter, making a show of gathering his plates. "I hope you enjoyed your breakfast." She noticed he'd left a generous tip, as she'd been sure he would.

Tea Man reached out and put two finger tips on the hand she had wrapped around his cup, "It was fine, and you made it delightful. Many thanks."

She felt the blush crawl up her face. "Well, you take care on the road. Stop by again."

He gave her one more smile and then turned and made his way to the cashier and out the door. Liz watched him through the front window as he walked across the parking lot and get into his car. And thought, "I wish. . ."

 

**Talk about something you did that made you feel ashamed of yourself afterwards.**

I have to think back for this one. My inclination is to feel disappointment at one of my plans not working out, not shame when they do.

When I was at university, I was reading History. I remember turning up at a meeting with my tutor woefully unprepared. The paper I was to read was supposed to with land distribution among peasants in the Middle Ages, or something equally useless. Of course the thing was complete bullocks. I was coming off a bender of several days with my Circle. We were getting better at spells and being young, we over-indulged ourselves. I was feeling quite bilious, as I recall.

My tutor, was it Hendries?, no, no, his name was Hankley, was livid at the quality of the paper. And my being sick in his waste basket, also. He was quite obsessive about land distribution. Or so it seemed to me. It ended with his calling me worthless and a blot on the university and well, it did seem to me that his voice went on and on. The gist of it was, I was a wastrel, unfit for civilized society.

That rubbed me rather raw. I was really working myself to leaving university and hadn't gotten up the courage to face my father with this. And now this man had –what did we used to say then?—tried to kill my buzz with his nonsense. I extracted revenge. Gathering my Circle, I managed to put a spell on him. The details are fuzzy now; there have been so many spells since then. Something about every time he said the words "land management" his penis would become erect. We weren't a subtle group, I must admit.

We were still feeling our way in the magic realm, so I'm sure the spell wasn't permanent or even very long lasting. I imagine, though, it was the most activity that member had seen in a while.

It was a petty thing to do to the man. After all, I was the one at fault. I should have realized that his having to live the life he was leading was punishment enough. I should have been out of university, spreading my chaos about the world, not plaguing some tiny-minded pedagogue. I would almost say I'm sorry.

**Talk about losing control**

Losing control is my raison d'etre. Rather, my making others lose control is my raison d'etre.

Hmm, do you think it's because I come from such a controlled background that I enjoy Chaos? Yet, most everyone in my world was extremely buttoned down as a child. I was one of the few to sprout metaphorical wings and flutter off. The others remained very grub-like, wearing a rut in the ground as they went about their monotonous routine. They very much have the illusion of control.

And let's face it, it is an illusion. Even without me as a wild card, life is a very uncertain game. I find I thoroughly enjoy upturning the lives of those most convinced that they are in command of their world. Sometimes I like to bring a bit of mischief for its own sake, but my deepest fulfillment in the service of my god, comes when I can take the staid citizens on a whirligig ride. Give them a different view of things. I decide the game. I am my father's son. I like control.

**Picture Prompt (a picture of Venice, CA)**

Well, it was certainly different from the original. And it was light years away from Little Venice in London.

Ethan felt overdressed. Everyone here was semi-nude and most had the bodies that made it a harmonious choice. He strolled, the runners and skaters weaving by him, though he thought the latter liked to skim as close as possible, for sport. No matter, he had no inclination to be churlish to the young and athletic.

The canals the Americans had carved out here didn't have the historic charm of the Italian ones. Here it was all perpendicular, with no romantic gingerbread bridges. But who needs imagination when you have endless California sunshine?

And it, California, is just as those garish movies in his boyhood had portrayed it. He must arrange a longer stay. He'd already noticed that his accent had listeners leaning toward him. He struck them as some exotic creature. He must put himself about, with luck he could settle in as a houseguest for a while. Charm, then, would be the watchword.

An infinite ocean met by an infinite beach, dotted with palm trees. He did a 360 degree turn like the skaters do, but slower because it wasn't for show but to soak in what he saw. He'd traded the Old World for this new one for a while; he thought it was going to be fun.

**Write a letter to your younger self.**

Whiling away the hours of his Initiative captivity, Ethan composes a letter to himself as a boy.

Dear Jumped Up Little Sod,

I greet you in that manner as it is the way your father most often addresses you, though in deference to your mother, he sometimes uses, "Here, you". Indeed, you wonder, don't you, if he even remembers your given name.

Not to worry, young Ethan, your present situation is not permanent. That parental figure that looms so large will fade to a risible memory. It's true he holds the purse strings so tightly that your adolescence will be at times dull and tedium-filled. But this will sharpen your cunning, especially after you discover the pleasure of London. Use your wits, boy. They're there.

I suppose I could tell you of future difficulties and how to avoid them. You wouldn't listen though, would you? And thinking it over now, why should you? I've been in some tight spots, but I got through them and had quite a bit of fun on the way. Anyway, how could I dissuade you from your predilection for blue-eyed boys? I couldn't and I must say they turned out to be the most entertaining part of the journey.

One thing I wish you would listen to me about, old son. Squelch that tendency of yours to gloat over your accomplishments. It's not an attractive personal quality and it leads to all manner of difficulties.

Yours in captivity but ever hopeful,

Ethan

**What is the thing you most regret not saying?**

To the dealer in Las Vegas: I'll hold.

To my sister at her engagement: Well, now that you ask, no, I don't think your fiancé is attractive. He walks like he has a broomstick up his arse and to call him dull is to flatter him.

To my fourth form teacher: Yes, I do think I'm smarter than you. I rather think dust is smarter than you.

To the motel clerk after I made Rupert a Fyarl demon: I'll be checking out now.

To Mr. Trick: There's no real reason for me to come to the candy packing plant, is there?

To that nice young man in Brazil who drugged my drink and stole my wallet: No, thank you.

To my father at his announcement that I was to enter university with the goal of becoming a barrister: Are you mad?

~~To Rupert Giles~~: No, I think I said it all.

 

**What does karma mean to you?**

Not to be immodest, but I am karma.

Let's face it; most people's idea of karma is just an aspect of their ego. _If I am bad, then I cause bad things to happen; when I am good, pleasant rewards are mine. What I do affects everything in the universe_. The enormity of the self-aggrandizement...I, for one, am shocked.

While in truth, it's not you; other people are doing things to you. If you annoy me, I cast a spell and change you into a braying ass or toad for a while. Perhaps I cancel all your credit card accounts. It really depends on my mood. But, you're saying, it's because I did something bad to you, that's the reason you do something bad to me. Oh, not necessarily. I may have just gotten up with a hangover or, and, this is true, I bore easily. If I'm sitting at a sidewalk café, and having finished my newspaper, I see you walk by in a tee shirt sporting a vulgar message or talking too loudly on your cell phone, I might have you trip on the perfectly flat sidewalk, or conjure up dog excrement in your path. Because you annoy me, and most other people, I might add; your behavior hasn't been morally reprehensible, you haven't reaped punishment. You are totally a pawn of others, that is, of me.

 

**Talk about a moving act of kindness you experienced or witnessed.**

Ethan knew about kindness. From, for instance, his father. The man took kindness to the poor very seriously. "They'd only drink it away," he'd say of his reluctance to give them money. He was doing them a favor, saving them from their folly. "They need to get off their behinds," he'd add, so thoughtful about their health and well-being.

Edward "Ted" Rayne was also charitable in his business dealings. Ethan would hear him expound at the dinner table about allowing others credit. It was kind of him. And if those who owed him money hit a rough patch in life and need a little leeway, Ethan's father realized it was kindness to teach them about life. He would take over their company, or buy it cheaply because they were desperate. These people must learn to plan more wisely, Ethan's father would say.

Ethan's parents were particularly assiduous in charity work if it meant their photo would be in the local newspaper. Charity balls, church fetes, fund-raising dinners, they were sure to be at all of them. Being seen to do good, Ethan's father explained, was a burden that leading citizens had to assume.

And at school, Ethan saw that the teachers who caned him were only trying to be kind. He was obstinate and non-conforming. He scoffed at games and ridiculed traditions. He was beaten to teach him to respect their customs. They pointed out to him that they were doing it for his own good. His teachers always made him thank them for this instruction.

Ethan saw many examples of kindness in his life. They were inspiring. But, alas, he knew himself to be of a rather lazy disposition. Not given to expending energy to curry the good opinion of others. So though he'd been tutored well in kindness, he saw no sense in maintaining the façade. Really, let's call it evil and revel in it. He found it much more restful.

(More to come)


End file.
